Importentia
by Siemsen
Summary: 19th Century AU: The wheelchair-bound son of a wealthy lord, Alfred Kirkland lives a secluded and sheltered life. He dreams of having adventures, of finding "true love", but most of all, he longs for the ability to walk. One day, by a chance occurrence, he meets a mysterious man who promises to give him all he desires, and more. But what if the price is one he cannot pay?


**A/N: I know, I know, the amateur should be focusing on her other story and getting the second chapter up, but this is a story I started a long time ago (in fact, it precedes "A Burdened House"), and I just finished it up, so I felt the odd urge to post it :P. I'm sorry if it's rushed, I just really wanted to post for Easter xD. Which reminds me, happy Easter everyone! Enjoy every last bit of chocolate you receive ;)**

_Chapter One_

It was deathly quiet inside the cramped bedroom, almost eerily so. The asphyxiating silence that had long since descended upon the room seemed more obstreperous than any noise that a large crowd could conjure, and it was so overbearing that the seven-year-old felt as though he were suffocating.

His eyes of baby-blue skirted from left to right, whizzing about in hyperventilation as his chest rose and fell rhythmically, his short breaths emerging from his mouth in the form of strangled wheezes. He attempted to placate himself using the same repetitive mantra of 'I'll be fine, I'll be fine, I'll be fine' over and over, but to no avail. A full-blown panic attack was well on its way, and the thought alone made the little boy want to bawl.

He grasped at the edge of his covers, his small hands curling into fists as they clenched tightly around the duvet. The countless beads of sweat were unrelenting in their movements as they pushed themselves up from his facial pores and trickled down his glistening visage, leaving endless trails of bodily perspirations in their wake. His flaxen hair was matted against his face, encasing it limply as it clung to his skin. The little boy felt his lungs slowly compressing and collapsing on themselves, his breathing difficulty arising with each passing second.

The blond's eyes glazed over, pooling with unshed tears as his breaths began to hitch. A choked sob forced its way out of his mouth, parting his plump, pinkish lips to form a large 'O'. He was laid down upon a soft, plushy mattress, his small frame concealed behind an equally fluffy duvet. This simple fact alone should have made his pain more bearable, and yet it did not. For despite all the comfort that his bedding should have brought him, it only served to make him more uncomfortable.

After all, it wasn't just the silence that terrified the child; it was the darkness that came with it, and the feeling of being completely trapped, something which covers in which to hide behind could not help with. It was the very same darkness that currently shrouded the entire room, and the very claustrophobic feeling that he constantly felt when locked inside this minuscule bedroom.

His eyelids closed over wide, tear-filled orbs of baby-blue. The seven-year-old pursed his plump lips and quickly ran his tongue over his bottom one, a low buzzing noise slowly beginning to form in his chest as he hummed an old lullaby he recognised in a feeble attempt at distracting himself from the ever-engulfing fear of taut solitude. His hums were silent and under-breathed, as if unable to raise in terms of volume. At the macabre-like echo that resonated upon his incessant humming, the little boy promptly broke off in favour of releasing an almost inaudible stream of pathetic whimpers, blindly glancing around for any sign of monsters. This elicited a mortified shiver to run down his spine, rendering his so-called attempt at self-placation useless.

He wanted to leave.

He _needed_ to leave.

The boy could faintly hear something thudding rapidly, be it the monster under his bed fighting its way out or his own racing heart.

He knew that he had to get out somehow.

The only question remaining was where he would go.

His father had ordered him to remain within the confines of his room for the remainder of the night, and had explicitly told him not to leave under any circumstances (with the possible exception of relieving himself when needed). He'd made it very clear that he was not to wander the corridors that night (not that he ever did). The flaxen-haired child didn't understand why his dear Daddy would say such a thing, as he had never said anything of the sort before (such a thing had never needed to be vocalised). Of course, on previous nights, the boy's father had usually been there to tuck him in and to read him a bedtime story, always been there to smooth out his strands of unruly hair as he'd softly wove a glorious tale filled with magic, monarchs, evil wizards, and the like.

He'd always been there to chase the monsters away with the use of a few, simple words, words that the seven-year-old had never really understood yet had always been assured were part of an ancient incantation used to ward off all evil.

Those nights had been filled with pleasant, peaceful dreams, dreams that didn't wake him up in the night screaming his lungs out in pure, unadulterated horror. Those nights were now but mere memories, memories of much better times.

These days, Daddy was always busy, too preoccupied with his current predicaments to indulge himself with recounting made-up fairytales to a child. He simply didn't have the time to bother with such frivolities anymore, and although the child strongly disliked this sudden turn of events, he couldn't very well reverse them either.

For despite hating the fact that he no longer had the safety of his father's stories in which to seek mental asylum, the boy knew that his father's word was law, and he would always abide by it. If his father told him not to leave his room, then he wouldn't do so. It was as simple as that.

...Except that it wasn't.

He was petrified, more so than he had ever been in a long time. When his father had first ceased tucking him in, it had been dreadful, yet oddly bearable. The blond child had always reassured himself that this sudden change was only a temporary one and that soon enough he'd have his bedtime stories back. This had been a foolish, childish falsehood that he would convince himself with in order not to be afraid. But now, after nearly a month of nightmares, there was no denying the reality of his rapidly increasing fears. The monsters were already starting to creep out from their hiding places, and should they decide to do so, would surely kill him.

Coming to a brief conclusion, the flaxen-haired boy quietly pushed the covers towards the other end of the bed, an involuntary shiver running down his spine as the cool air washed over him like icy waves over his thine nightgown. His pallid hands quivered slightly as he lifted one leg at a time over the edge of his bed, his lithe body slipping off the sheet and his feet coming into contact with the ground, a resounding plop quickly following this action.

He swallowed audibly.

The blue-eyed boy raised his leg up and made to move forwards, his right foot hovering above the azure-matted floor before being placed on the soft ground, his heel tilted upwards ever-so-slightly. Everything was dark. The blond-haired boy squinted his eyes in an effort to see anything, but to no avail. No matter how hard he strained his eyes, the blue-eyed seven-year-old remained blind, unable to so much as make out the outline of his bed. He stretched out his arms and waved them in front of his person as he began the short trek towards his door, walking prudently. He stopped here and there with each creak that followed his footsteps, slightly worried that the monsters might hear.

When he reached the oaken door that led to freedom, his hand trailed up alongside the crack that separated the door from the hinge. He moved his hand to the right, the tip of his fingers gently brushing against the cool, brass doorknob. Slowly, but surely, he raised himself up on his tiptoes and grasped a hold of the doorknob, his hand curling around it and twisting to the side, effectively opening the door. He pushed it aside, only to find that the corridor was as equally dark as his room.

Leaving the door slightly ajar, he slowly took a few steps forward. From memory, the blond could tell that there were lamps lined up against the walls, although they were scarcely used. He figured that they would prove very useful right about now.

Still as blind as a bat, he shuffled forth, his eyes alternating between narrowing and widening as he waded through the darkness. The floor beneath him creaked with each step he took, causing his breath to catch in his throat and hitch violently. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply in an attempt at calming himself, his hands balling into fists as he forced himself to move forward. It was only a matter of time before his ears picked up on an almost inaudible, muffled sound. The boy couldn't discern what was being said, but whoever the speaker was, he didn't sound too happy.

Unable to contain the slight flicker of curiosity that he felt, the blond tried to blindly follow the direction of the noise, his arms automatically reaching out towards the wall on his left for support. He leaned in and pressed his body against the wall, his hands caressing the wallpaper as he moved along with light footsteps. With each step he took, he seemed to near his destination, the muffled voice increasing in volume, so much so that it became slightly comprehensible.

"...can't beli...e you agr...d to that lud...ous plan of his..."

The seven-year-old's eyebrows creased into a light frown. The words he heard were incomplete, and at times sounded cut off.

A second, lower voice spoke, "You... all of us at risk... agreeing to that foolish deal...what... thinking...?"

The blue-eyed child's frown deepened, slightly aggravated that he couldn't hear what the man was saying.

A third, eerily familiar voice entered the fray, "I say we... to make sure...doesn't... out of term..."

The young boy's heart leapt up and caught in his throat, the corners of his lips tugging upwards to form an elated grin. That was his uncle's voice! What on earth was he doing here? It had to be important for his uncle to come all this way! Curiosity piqued, the boy shuffled forwards, eager to hear more.

"No... please... you don't understand... just don't... . h-he ….. me... please!" a fourth voice pleaded brokenly. The seven-year-old furrowed his brows in sympathy for the man. He didn't know who he was, but he sounded pretty scared.

The blue-eyed child didn't like it when people were scared.

"Blackmailed?" an incredulous voice echoed.

"Y-yes! He... me with personal..."

"Oh? Just what... of infor..tion?"

"I-ah... information pertaining to... family..."

An audible click of a tongue could be heard only to be followed by a sneer, "You signed a contract...for your own personal...? I expected... of you."

"Now, there- there's no need to be so condescending... See, he... forced my hand-"

"Enough of... gobswallop... let's just... and be done with it." the boy's uncle stated with an air of impatience. The blond child, now positioned almost right outside the door, melded himself against the wall, straining his ears.

"I don't think... will be nec...sary..."

The child's eyes widened exponentially, his smile widening tenfold. Despite how foolish it now seemed, he really hadn't expected to hear his father's voice. Giddiness rapidly replacing his previous dread, the young boy tiptoed forwards, his left ear quickly becoming one with the wall as he sidled his head alongside it.

"I mean, look... poor man...even stand straight."

The blond-haired boy inched closer, his eyes wide open and unseeing as he brought his foot forward and let it hover in the air, his face set with resolve.

"-rest assured, gentlemen, this will not be taken lightly."

"I should very well hope not."

"As expected."

"He will suffer-"

"Now, come on, that's hardly fair! Please, reconsider!"

"I see we are all in agreement tha-?"

Whatever was said next remained unbeknownst to the blue-eyed boy outside. In his inquisitorial haste to hear more, the young child had accidentally reset his foot back on the ground a little way away- big mistake.

His barefoot collided with the edge of a step, making the boy slip on his back and land on his rear, his hands shooting out from his sides to grasp the edge of the top of the stairs in an effort to prevent himself from falling down the staircase. The boy forced himself not to make a noise, worried that he may have been heard. He had not. A pained groan made its way past his lips in spite of himself as he tried to push himself back up before anyone came out to investigate.

However, being completely blinded, the child repeated the same mistake, only this time with much more severe consequences.

He tripped over his own feet when scrabbling to get up, causing him to release a startled yelp. The room next to him quietened immediately at this vociferous caw, the seven-year-old losing his footing and falling back. His blue eyes widened in terrified shock, his mouth agape in a silent scream. He knew what was going to happen before it did.

All sense of balance eluding him, the boy tumbled down the stairs, hitting each and every one of them with a forceful pang. His body rolled down the staircase like a rag doll, excruciating pain erupting throughout the entirety of his person. He was unable to make a single vocalisation to ululate his pure, unadulterated agony, the only audible sound being his falling down the stairs. He couldn't see anything, and so squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth so wide that it almost split his face in half as he tried to screech, only for nothing to come out. After what felt like an eternity, the blue-eyed child reached the end of the staircase and hit the solid ground with an almighty crash. Upon his unconventional landing, the lad remained absolutely still, not making so much as a single movement.

His back firmly planted to the ground and his right leg in a horrifyingly twisted position, the blond child stared blankly up at the ceiling, his eyes wide and unseeing. Hot, searing pain flared up near his spine, causing the young boy to release a shrill, mental shriek of agony. He could hear curious, yet cautious mutters as a door creaked open from upstairs, but the noise sounded faint and almost inaudible. His bottom lip parted from his upper one, quivering slightly as someone called for an oil lamp. He remained in motionless torture as heavy footfalls made their way down the stairs.

A horrified gasp could be heard and the boy caught sight of a near-blinding light flickering from just out of the corner of his eyes. He forced his irises to move to the right to see at least three, unrecognisable men standing just above the foot of the staircase, the one in the middle holding a large oil lamp in his possession. The light illuminated their gaunt faces, bathing their horrified visages with fiery luminosity. They remained speechless, shocked into complete silence at the sight of the unmoving child. One of them opened his mouth as if to say something when two pairs of feet came racing down.

The child's heart leapt up and caught in his throat, in a bad way this time, as he looked upon his father and uncle with a completely stoic expression. His uncle's unlit cigar, which always seemed to be wedged firmly between his upper and lower lip, fell from his mouth in stupefaction. His father, whose feet had seemed glued to the ground from his position at the top of the staircase, forced himself to rush forwards as his mind registered what had happened.

"Alfred!" he cried out indignantly, knocking over those who did not have the foresight to get out of his way. His emerald eyes blazed with unsuppressed horror, a slight twinge of fear sparkling clearly in those orbs of green.

A burning heat formed behind the boy's eyes as his father approached, his vision rapidly blurring and disorienting before the world was shrouded in darkness once more.

XxXxXxX

The room was dark.

Very dark.

So dark, in fact, that the prestigious lord could barely make out the slumped body before him, which lay completely immobile save for the occasional rise and fall of its chest, its breathing emerging in the form of laboured wheezes.

The only source of light available was a rusty oil lamp, currently set upon a bedside table, serving to engulf the seated man's dirty-blond hair with light, making it luster a beautiful golden colour. The lord sat there, as still as a statue, his head in his hands and his elbows propped up by his knees. His eyes were downcast, unwilling to strain themselves in an attempt at seeing the broken body of the unconscious child.

He stayed in that position for a long time.

A long, long time.

Perhaps too long a time, and when a nurse entered the room to inform him that he could stay no longer, he parted his pursed lips to reply, in a light, eerie tone, that he would have her sacked if she did not leave him in peace. At a loss of what to do, the flabbergasted nurse had backed out of the room, paler than anything the lord had ever seen, even paler than the newly-crippled boy lying motionlessly in the hospital bed, blissfully unaware of his predicament.

As soon as she had left, he returned to his brooding, his eyes meeting with Alfred's legs, legs that would never have the ability to walk again.

It made him sick.

The lord stared queasily at his son, his pallid hand resting across his midsection as his face contorted into a grotesque grimace, unable to look away.

In his silence, he could barely register the sound of someone slipping inside the room in an airily manner, standing at the doorway like an omnipresent shadow, making next to no noise as it stared coldly at the scene that beheld it.

The blond lord deigned not to remark on his brother's presence, his eyes still locked on his son's unmoving form.

"How long have you been here?"

His brother asked softly after several minutes of observance, his bluish-green eyes hard and steely as a gross contradiction to his silky-like voice, so unlike his usual burr.

The lord didn't reply; he merely stared hollowly at his son, still unwilling to accept the fact that he was now a cripple.

A sigh, albeit a silent one; the blond man could hear his brother step closer, stopping short just beside him. He watched for a moment, as if unsure of what to say or do. He eventually opted to place a calloused hand upon the blond's shoulder, giving it an awkward squeeze. The lord forced himself to tear his eyes away from his son in favour of letting them trail up the long arm of his brother, gazing up to see those beryl-coloured eyes fixed on Alfred, almost masked by a combination of incredibly bushy eyebrows and strands of unruly hair the colour of a fiery crimson. The redhead didn't spare him a glance, instead repeating, "How long have you been here?"

The blond redirected his gaze back to his son, replying so quietly that the other aristocrat had to strain to hear it, "I don't know..."

Another sigh, and silence quickly retook its place. The redhead waited a while, his expression calculating, before he informed, "We should leave him be. Visiting hours have long since ended, and you've been here long enough as it is-"

"No."

The redhead furrowed his eyebrows, "Arthur-"

"I said 'no'."

"You need to sleep." the redhead insisted, frowning disapprovingly.

His brother shot him a glare, "No."

The taller of the two allowed his hand to slip from the blond's shoulder and he stared stoically, his expression imperceptible as his eyes narrowed slightly.

"Fine. Stay until security forcibly ejects you; on your reputation be it. Just know that you aren't doing him any favours by sitting here and wallowing in self-pity."

Arthur, for that was his name, seemed astounded that his brother would make such a remark, especially at such a time, and a glower rapidly settled over his features as he stuttered, "How- how dare-"

The beryl-eyed man shot him a malevolent look of his own, "Get some sleep, Arthur. God knows you'll need it."

And with that being said, the redhead turned on his heel and stalked towards the door, outstretching his hand to grasp at the doorknob. He paused, taking a second to spare a last minute glance at his broken nephew, before taking his leave, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

His footsteps could still be heard leading away from the door, and the further the man strayed, the sulkier Arthur got.

The lord glared at the door, his lips pursed together to form a rigid line. Brother or not, he had no right to speak to him like that.

A drawn-out wheeze made him snap his head back to face his son, whose eyelids were still closed over eyes of baby-blue. Arthur stood abruptly, causing his chair to scrape back vociferously against the floor. He cautiously approached the bed, his emerald eyes wide as Alfred's breath hitched, stilling completely. The lord stood there, in shock, incapable of breathing himself.

"A-Alfred?"

No response.

"A...Alfred!?"

The boy remained still, his chest completely motionless, giving no indication that he was breathing.

"_**Alfred!?**_"

No.

No no no no no no no.

_No._

This couldn't be happening, his son wasn't, he_ couldn't_ be, it just wasn't possible, he **couldn't** be, the doctors had reassured him, _**sworn**_ that he'd live, that he wouldn't die, no, he couldn't be, he wasn't-

How could he be...?

Arthur's hands suddenly shot up to clutch at his hair, gripping the wayward strands of blond so tightly that he threatened to tear them apart. He inhaled and exhaled in a manner most irregular, his heart beat augmenting exponentially as he stared, shell-shocked, at his son's still form. He found himself incapable of regulating his breathing, practically hyperventilating as his eyes popped from their sockets, his mouth wide open as he gasped for air, his bulging eyes locked on the small body. A large lump rose in his throat, blocking his windpipe and successfully constricting him to the point of suffocation.

Suddenly, in a manner most idiosyncratic of him, Arthur lurched forwards, grabbing his son's thine covers with pallid hands, twisting them fervently as he gazed down at his face, so pure and blissful, so tranquil, so unbothered by the face that he wasn't breathing, so... blank.

It made Arthur want to scream.

The lord released his hold on the covers and clutched at the sides of Alfred's face, completely winded as he opened his mouth in a silent screech, his emerald eyes reflecting his pure terror and disbelief, and oh, this could not be happening, it could not, it wasn't possible, he couldn't be, couldn't be-

A breath.

Arthur stopped, staring as he clearly felt it; a warm breath, one not of his own, ghosting on his stark-white skin.

Alfred was breathing.

Arthur wanted to cry. He wanted to scream, and yell, and rant, and laugh, but most of all, he wanted to cry.

He hastily bent down to press a sloppy kiss on his son's forehead, resting his own upon it as he felt his son's breaths, fade though they undoubtedly were. He smiled in spite of himself, trembling furiously as he cupped his son's cheeks and kissed his forehead again, sweat rising from every pore of his body, making it glisten in the oil lamp's gleen.

"O-oh my sweet boy..." he released a shaky breath, his voice wavering dangerously as he entangled his fingers in his son's unruly hair, stroking it repeatedly, murmuring nonsensical and meaningless words as he arched his back, slumping over his son's body in exhausted relief.

XxXxXxX

Chest heaving and falling rapidly, palish eyelids snapped open to reveal capturing orbs of baby-blue. They blinked, adjusting to the brightness of the room while attempting to overcome the blurriness that obscured their vision. The boy's eyes slowly trailed from one end of the ceiling to the other, narrowing slightly. The pale child soaked in his surroundings, eventually putting two and two together and coming to the brief conclusion that he was in a hospital of sorts, if the purely white walls and the bed he lay in was anything to go by. A light frown creased his eyebrows, and a flurry of jumbled thoughts flitted through his mind, frantic in their endless queries about where he was and why he was here. Frowning, he tried to move his limbs in an attempt at getting out of bed, ready to bolt out of the room at any given moment. He moved his right arm first, followed by his left. A shot of pain erupted from his left one while his right released a dull pulse, and the boy's head jerked back, brusquely connecting with the headboard.

He whimpered, his bottom lip quivering as tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He took a sharp intake of breath, causing it to rattle through his ribcage in a drawn-out rasp. Slowly, but surely, he tried to kick at the covers, but found that he could not move his legs; he couldn't even feel them. Panic gripping his heart and refusing to release it, he forced himself to trail his eyes down, staring at his immobile legs, hidden under the thine covers.

Nothing seemed abnormal.

Not until he pushed the covers off him with the use of his little arms.

Not until he saw the horrible disfigurement of his legs, the way in which they were sickeningly twisted and remained in a freakish position.

Not until a blood-curdling scream ripped from his throat in macabre.

**A/N: Rather anti-climatic ending, I guess? xD. I'm sorry if it sucked, I did kinda rush it a bit (bad author, you should know better than to rush a story!). I thank you once again for taking the time to read this. Feel free to leave a review, and please know that all constructive criticism is accepted (with the possible exception of 'flames'). This, of course, goes for any kind of review :). Hope you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next time! :D**


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